A Gentle Reminder
by whatsyourpathology
Summary: Had a spare 20 minutes on Valentine's Day. Here's a short little story about theirs.


**Introduction:** Tumblr inspires a lot of random stuff, this being one of them. There's a lot of experimentation here, it's not written in my usual voice or style. Be warned.

* * *

Because you weren't living before. But more than that, you didn't realize how much you weren't living before. You were content, in that quintessential English manner, looking forward to the rest of your days being simple, predictable, and gentle. It's not that these things were bad or that you weren't right to want them, only that you were stupid enough to reject the alternative before giving it a chance.

Giving her a chance.

She found you rude and discourteous, worse; utterly middle-class, something you had no qualms about before that moment. Perhaps that's what was so captivating about her, her ability to make you feel small and inadequate, as if your manners, your hair, and even your law degree were little more than trinkets and amusements, not to be taken seriously. As if any number of the men that gathered around her, like moths to an celestial flame, would boast about such minor details. You had no title, not really, no riches, and no power. Under any normal circumstance, she would've wanted nothing from you and you may have felt the same.

But life had such many odd turns and you weren't prepared to navigate them. She came crashing into you like waves upon a beach. And likewise you did the same. But she was mad at you. Because, evidently, you had ruined her sandcastle. Because you are you, and no further explanation is necessary; you felt bad. You try to help her rebuild the castle but she doesn't want your help. She'd rather do it herself. You find this infuriating and intriguing in equal measure.

It may have taken time, taken years, but you begin to see a different side of her. Something interior, hidden, probably deliberately. At first, you catch glimpses of it, in her eyes, the way they seem to flutter when she wants to say something but decides not to or the way her touch betrays her will and lingers a moment longer than appropriate. Was she trying to catch your attention? Had she spoken out loud perfectly, but you were just too dense to hear her?

Then there was a kiss. Loud enough? Clear enough? You bumbling idiot. For a lawyer, you seem to consistently miss the most obvious facts. When did you get this temperamental? You loved her from the very beginning, you wanted her far before she wanted you. You knew that she had insecurities and questions. You knew her weaknesses and vowed, internally, at the very least, don't lie to me, to love her for them. So what what was that? Why did you reject her? Why did you make her cry?

And the years you wasted because of it. And the suffering you inflicted upon yourself, and her, and Lavinia because of it. And the man you had driven her to. Are you proud of that? Do you hear me? I know you do. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not here to plague your mind with doubts and insecurities, to frustrate or to shame you.

Sure, you can call me your guilty conscience, you can call me your moral center, you can call me whatever you like. It really doesn't matter. I'm here for your own good.

I'm glad that you two have patched things up. I was as glad as the rest of them when you proposed to her two months ago. I watched you two as you found your way back to each other. And I am proud, truly I am.

Just don't take her for granted.

She takes you into her bed, allows you to feel the heat of her skin, the sweetness of her kiss, the softness of her hair, breaking every vow of chastity and propriety, not because she's what they say, because she loves you. And you know, better than anyone, how hard that is for her. She cries as you cradle her, not because it hurts, because its one of the few places where she feels safe enough to let it all out. She's a passionate woman, as you have just found out, as the scratch marks on your back remind you. Don't pick at them, you'll ruin the contours. You can look at them in the mirror in the morning.

Now, she lays sleeping gently in your arms. And all you gave her for Valentine's Day was a card and some chocolates. Don't misunderstand me, it was a good first effort, but you know, as well as I, that her gift was better.

And so, as you lay awake in the darkness of her room, letting your thoughts wander into the depths of your consciousness, wondering how you had beat out that sea of suitors, how you had survived the war intact, how she managed to turn down Carlisle, and how, just how exactly you ended up legs entangled, hair in your face, holding her gently in your arms.

Let me gently remind you; you need to do better. Not just this day, not just because it is Valentine's Day, but everyday, from this moment forward. Because she's Lady Mary Crawley.

And that's reason enough.


End file.
